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This last sentence was dismissive. Sir Thomas could do nothing else but thank the king and ride away. |
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"Your wife seems to be enjoying herself," John then remarked to Ian. |
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No doubt he meant to convey that Alinor did not care what happened to her husband. Ian's lips curved a little. John had closed that gate to jealousy himself with his offerings for her next husband. Even if she had hated Ian, he knew Ian was better than Fulk de Cantelu or Henry of Cornhill. |
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"I hope she continues to enjoy the jousting," Ian replied, but there was suddenly a note of strain in his voice. |
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It had just occurred to him why the king was anxious for the last challengers to have their chance. He bowed again and touched his horse gently. Perhaps it was the sweat drying on his body, but suddenly he was chilled. Fulk and Henry were both fine jousters. They, if anyone, would have the skill and would take real joy in laying Ian in the dust. They were here, at court, althoug Ian had not seen them, probably because they were avoiding him. Why had not their names appeared at the head of the list? Because they were waiting until the end to catch him at his weakest, a weary man on a weary horse. Dimly, Ian heard the start of another run. To kill him, he wondered. So that Alinor could be offered as the tourney prize the next day? |
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A cry of pain and the roar of the crowd drew Ian's eyes. He saw only the end of it, the torn belly, whitish pink guts spilling out and the bright red gushing blood, but he knew how it had happened. An ill-held shield had tipped the lance-point into the soft abdomen instead of past the ribs. The ache in his shield arm made him set his teeth. An ill-held shieldOddly, it was not the fear of death that stung Ian at that moment. It was that ridiculous remark about Alinor enjoying herself. She was enjoying herself because her husband was, thus |
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